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My blog is weird

You guys see a very different side to me in comparison to what many people in my life see. My closest friends know that I am pretty…erm…odd, but my work colleagues and casual acquaintances see “professional Jane.”

Professional Jane likes pencil skirts and blazers. She eats rye crackers and discusses politics with men in suits. She analyses exam results and collates them in the form of pie charts. She attends meetings with colleagues and has an actual clipboard. Sometimes, she ties her hair up with a pencil. Yes, professional Jane is a straight-laced, no-nonsense nine to fiver.

Then there’s “crazy Jane”. Crazy Jane tries to teach her cat how to curtsy (she *almost* has it). She has an inexplicable fear of foam and waltzes with herself. She likes to not stalk her neighbours with binoculars and pretend she’s a French mime artist. She also loves wrestling and tequila (in that order). Sometimes, she likes to drive slowly beside random joggers she’s never met while playing Eye of the Tiger. She also likes to frequent karaoke bars where she can rap California Love in its entirety.

So yes, I’m weird. But I’m not always weird. I could come on here and be normal but then you guys wouldn’t be (hopefully) laughing at with me.

In case you guys are wondering, crazy Jane mostly lives in a cage while professional Jane is at work. I let her out in the evening, where she likes to dance to Abba and blog. Crazy Jane sure loves to blog. She also loves talking to all her fellow weirdos and sending them virtual cake. She is uncomfortable with referring to herself in the third person so she’s going to stop now and knit some tea cosies even though she doesn’t have a tea pot. Sinister.

The College Years

Believe it or not, I went to university. *waits for you to stop laughing…waits longer…*

I was a young, naive eighteen year old girl who actually still believed that Laika, the Soviet space dog, had survived her perilous voyage into low earth orbit because no one had ever wanted to tell this animal lover the cold, hard truth. As you can imagine, the thought of moving out into the big bad world was pretty daunting for me. Despite the fears and apprehension that I had, I was also quite excited. I envisioned myself sashaying into lectures theatres wearing an oversized scarf and rimless glasses, carrying only the finest coffee from the goateed barista around the corner, surrounded by enlightened students and partaking in witty debates with our charismatic lecturer who I basically imagined as this guy:

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Be still my beating heart…

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In reality, once I looked up what sashaying is in the dictionary, I realised things would be very very different. Firstly, I was usually awkwardly sidestepping into whatever seat was available twenty minutes into the lecture. Secondly, I could never afford coffee. Many a lecture was spent gazing longingly at the rich girls sitting up front, sipping their latte macchiatos and looking radiant because of their ability to afford solid food and central heating. And finally, my lecturers were no where near as charismatic as Professor Lasky (except for the Canadian guy who wore flowery shirts and played Sinatra on Fridays). Instead, they picked their noses, mumbled apathetically through lecture notes and seemed to only converse with the mature students who eagerly sat in the front row using words like “utilitarian” and “stentorian”.

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I had always thought of myself as somewhat intelligent and knowledgeable (I’ll conveniently ignore the time I put an egg on the grill) but university just served to inform me that what I don’t know could fill a rather large warehouse. There is nothing like sitting in a lecture while your professor and classmates are actually speaking in Middle English to make you feel out of place. I had my I have no idea what’s going on but the professor is looking at me nod down to a T though.

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I had assumed that having read the main four Shakespearean tragedies, knowing a sonnet from a sestina and being able to use the word modicum in a sentence provided me with the basic requirements for university level English, but apparently I was wrong. Many students in my class had seemingly spent their teenage years reading Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky and the more obscure Shakespearean plays, like Troilus and Cressida and Timon of Athens because Hamlet and Othello are sooo mainstream. I had spent my teenage years making bad hair decisions and pining over Nick Carter’s curtain hair.

*Swoons*

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There was, of course, lectures that I loved and that I felt comfortable in. I majored in history and English because these have always been my favourite subjects. They are also the subjects that I now teach. My grades were consistently high (mostly because I had the amazing capacity to study for forty eight hours straight) and overall, I enjoyed college.

But then there were days where I was lazy and disinterested. I made some bad module choices; like when I chose a course called Information Revolutions because it sounded really exciting but turned out to be a history of technology and made me want to staple my eyelids shut. I got pretty lost pretty quickly.

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In the end, I realised that choosing the right courses was basically the key to enjoying college and I was able to make informed decisions in my final year. And then I got a degree. 

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No, really. And then I got another one. And then a diploma. Underneath all this madness, there’s a brain that can retain quite a lot of useless information and some useful information.

So what did my college experience teach me? Attending classes does not necessarily mean you will become enlightened and all-knowing. Feeling inadequate is totally normal, and while there are five people who may pipe up in lectures and seem like they really know their stuff, there are 195 more people who are just as silently insecure as you are. And finally, there is no substitute for life experience. I learned far more about self-reliance and independence (freezing my ass off when I couldn’t afford my heating bill), than any lecture could ever have taught me.

Cupid or Cats has been chosen as a finalist in the Most Humorous Blog category for the Weblog Awards 2015. I would be delighted and emotional if you could vote for me, because I can’t even ask my mother to. To vote, just click on the link below, select Cupid or Cats under the Most Humorous category and submit your email address. You then just have to verify your vote and presto, I love you. Thank you!

And to those who have already voted, thank you so much. *hugs you and sniffs your hair*

Oops, I’m a Finalist

So I woke up this morning and found out that I have been selected as a finalist in the Most Humorous category for the 2015 Weblog Awards, or Bloggies. Then I hit myself over the head with a shoe, because I thought I was dreaming. 

But no, it’s true. Looook:



There I am! Also, look at my battery power. You’re looking into the mind of a champion.





Of course, I owe a huge thank you to all of you who nominated me. So thank you; sincerely and from the bottom of my weird heart, thank you. 

If voting for me to actually win seems like something you would like to do, then you can follow the link below to do so:

2015 Weblog Awards

Voting is very simple and won’t take long. You just click on the blogs you wish to win and submit your vote.

The truth is, I’m up against some really famous bloggers who have a lot more followers than I do and my chances of winning are slim. Nobody in my “real” life knows about my blog, so I can’t pester my friends on social media to vote for me and that’s definitely a drawback. If you want to share the crap out of this and bug your friends, I would be eternally grateful! I’ll name my firstborn after you.*

 I’m still really honoured to have even gotten this far though. I’m definitely going to make myself a cup of celebration tea (it’s like regular tea, but with wine in it…okay, it’s just wine). 

Also, I would like to congratulate Ben from Ben’s Bitter Blog who has been chosen as a finalist in the Weblog of the Year category. Well done Bitter Ben! You guys can also vote for him by clicking the link above. 

If you do vote for me, I love you. I know that it might be a little soon but seriously… I love you. If you don’t, it’s cool…we’re still friends. *plots your downfall*

Thanks for all of your support. 

*you…Emily Dickinson…Hulk Hogan…it’s all good…

Blog Revamp 

Today I decided to do a little blog spring clean. Since my blog was becoming crazier than this picture of Christina Aguilera….



Seriously, imagine trying to maintain a straight face while talking to THAT

…I felt that something needed to be done. Here’s a run through of the changes I made:

  • I changed the theme because I like to mix sh*t up. I also added a header image of an owl because I’m partial to a few good owls now and again, like most people. 
  • I laboriously put each of my posts into a category which you can now find in my sidebar. Some of you may point out that I should have been doing this all along and some of you would be right. Some of you should also shut up. 
  • I added a new page with my contact details to my blog as well as adding my Twitter and Facebook to my Gravatar so that we can become even closer. I don’t know…I just…I feel like we’re drifting apart. *Holds you*
  • I also picked some of my own personal favourite posts for new readers or visitors of my blog who don’t feel like scrolling through nineteen months of mayhem and added them to a new page at the top. Look up. No, not at your ceiling. OH FOR CRYING OUT LOUD. 

So, while I made these cosmetic changes to my blog (she’s like a young, plastic, blonde mistress now), I would also like to add that I have plenty of new ideas so stay tuned, watch this space and lots of other cheesy clichés.

If you would like to guest post, collaborate or even if you have some ideas for me, you can email me at cupidorcats@hotmail.com. I love working with other bloggers and I am so fo…

IS THAT BOB BARKER??!!

Focused. I’m focused.

Anyway, thank you for following Cupid or Cats. Your kindness made the last three hours of blog cleaning bearable…*sweeps smashed laptop screen under table with foot*





The Reality of Living with Your Partner

‘Why do you seem incapable of picking up the towel after your shower?’ I bend down and grab a damp towel from the floor of our bathroom, wincing as a pain shoots up my spine. I feel angry. I bunch up the towel and fling it across the landing, feeling tears spring in my eyes. This is stupid I tell myself, frantically running the back of my hand across my face. It’s just a towel. …..even if you spent all of your day off meticulously cleaning the entire house. I’m tired. I’m tired and sore from a long day at work and I don’t want to be picking up towels for other people.
My boyfriend doesn’t respond. He is in his office, working hard on his doctoral thesis and probably tutting at my nagging. He is tired too. I notice that his clothes are strewn across the landing and I feel like screaming. My mind goes back ten years, to our first night living together.

We had just come from the Irish version of prom. We were moving into a small house in Cork city, with two other people, to attend university together. We lay on a tiny single bed, in a grotty room, giddy and in love. We had looked forward to this moment for two years. We had lived hundreds of kilometres apart and now, finally, we would never be apart again. My head lay on his chest, and I listened to his heart beat. It was slow. He played with my hair.
‘I love you.’
‘I love you too.’
It felt simple. It was simple.
‘What do you think this will be like?’ he asked.
‘Perfect,’ I answered, without needing to think about it. ‘It will be perfect.’

And for a while, it came pretty close. Even though we had separate rooms, we couldn’t stand spending a night apart. We went to college and we watched TV with our roommates in the evening. We were young and in love and that seemed to be enough.

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After a year, we moved to a different house, alone for the first time in our lives. Like any couple, we argued. We argued about who’s turn it was to do the dishes, who should make dinner and whether to turn the heating on or not (I get cold easily, Jack does not). Sometimes these arguments descended into bitter fighting. Although we have never once in our twelve years together gone to sleep while still arguing, we have had some terrible verbal fights that neither of us are proud of.

After living together for a few years, I felt disillusioned. This hadn’t been part of the plan. When did Belle or Snow White have to worry about rent or bills or whether their other halves picked up their underwear off the floor? Of course I knew that life isn’t a fairytale, but I didn’t realise just how monotonous and frustrating living with the supposed love of your life could become. And I hated myself for feeling like that. I knew I loved Jack. I knew someday I wanted to marry him. I also knew that not living with him would feel infinitely worse for me. But knowing all of this didn’t stop the arguments.

And we still argue. We still argue over the dishes, the dinner, the heating. Jack leaves his clothes and towels strewn about and I inevitably end up picking them up for him. I leave food lying about in the kitchen and he ends up putting it back in the cupboards. Some days, we get angry and frustrated with one another and we talk it out. We’ve become much better at communicating with one another without the need for pettiness or passive aggressiveness. I’ve come to accept that this is what a real relationship is like. Most days, we are wonderful together. We laugh, we give each other space, we are affectionate and considerate. Some days we argue. Some days, we are selfish and irritable. I’ve learned that this is normal. We argue because we care. When we stop arguing, we stop caring.

Living with someone is tough. That’s something you don’t learn from Disney movies or romance novels. You are allowing someone to see you in a way that nobody outside your immediate family ever really has. I have flaws; I can be demanding, I’m overly-sensitive and I’m needy. I can also be ridiculously irrational. *cough* Like when we fight and I tell him to get out and then two second later, I’m all:

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*cough*

Jack has seen and dealt with these unattractive qualities first-hand. He has been patient, loving and kind to me. Although we’re not perfect, we seem to be right for each other. We fit. I would take a million arguments if it means that I’m lucky enough to have found the right person. It’s not always a bed of roses, but when it is, it makes everything else worthwhile:

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So living with Jack has been challenging. There are some days where I honestly have wanted to scream at him until I’m hoarse. Then there are days when I’ve come home from work, dejected and stressed, and all that I’ve needed is a cuddle and a cup of tea. I don’t even need to ask and Jack will fetch me a blanket and a hot water bottle and order me to lie on the sofa. We have our challenges, but we face them together. We haven’t idealised the future; we know that it will be tough at times. We will have to work together and to make compromises. We will fight, and we will hurt each other, but we will always come back and say we’re sorry.

This post has been partly inspired by one of my favourite poems by the wonderful Adrienne Rich called Living in Sin. The poem deals with the reality of living with a partner, as opposed to the idealised version we are often presented with in fiction. Have a read:

She had thought the studio would keep itself;
no dust upon the furniture of love.
Half heresy, to wish the taps less vocal,
the panes relieved of grime. A plate of pears,
a piano with a Persian shawl, a cat
stalking the picturesque amusing mouse
had risen at his urging.
Not that at five each separate stair would writhe
under the milkman’s tramp; that morning light
so coldly would delineate the scraps
of last night’s cheese and three sepulchral bottles;
that on the kitchen shelf among the saucers
a pair of beetle-eyes would fix her own—
envoy from some village in the moldings . . .
Meanwhile, he, with a yawn,
sounded a dozen notes upon the keyboard,
declared it out of tune, shrugged at the mirror,
rubbed at his beard, went out for cigarettes;
while she, jeered by the minor demons,
pulled back the sheets and made the bed and found
a towel to dust the table-top,
and let the coffee-pot boil over on the stove.
By evening she was back in love again,
though not so wholly but throughout the night
she woke sometimes to feel the daylight coming
like a relentless milkman up the stairs.

If anyone has some tips on how not to murder your partner, leave them in the comments!

Embarrassing Photo Tag

janeybgood:

Ritu took part in Embarrassing Photo Tag with me, check her out, she’s a beaut! :)

Originally posted on But I Smile Anyway...:

Ok, so we might be mad, but my BlogPal Janey atCupid or Catsand I had a really spectacular(-ly silly!) idea on one conversation we had after reading one of her posts regarding the fact that most kids nowadays don’t get to go through the geeky tween/teen years, instead, going from cute kid to almost perfect made up teen… Thanks to all the media coverage about appearance.

But you know what, if you haven’t gone through the embarrassing stage, there’s a huge part of your character you haven’t built! And with this in mind, we thought what a great idea to dig out and post embarrassing pics of ourselves. Have a giggle yourself at your uncomfortable tween/teen self, and give others a laugh too!!

I’m linking this back to Janey’s original postEmbarrassing Photo Tag!

Just to make it fun, and to spread the giggles, I will tag…

View original 248 more words

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Embarrassing Photo Tag

As often is the case, I got chatting to one of my blog buddies in the comments section of my previous post and we came up with a potentially terrible/brilliant idea! Ritu (from the wonderful But I Smile Anyway) and I decided that it would be just a fabulous idea for us all to share some photos from our teenage/awkward years so we can all laugh at with each other.
The plan is this:

-I’m going to heroically share some of my awkward pictures with you all. I’ve had a difficult time finding pictures since I’m about three hundred kilometres from my childhood home and my carrier pigeon is currently on strike (damn unions) but I was able to dig up some pretty cringe-inducing pictures.

-I’m going to tag three people to continue this trend. Of course, participation is completely optional and I’ll only silently be disappointed if you don’t partake. *sobs in the shower*

-I’m going to text a donation to an Irish charity since I figure something good should come out of all of this (you know, besides our collective shame).

So here goes:
I apologise in advance for the quality of the pictures. But hey, nobody’s perfect…except for the wrestler, Mr. Perfect.

Here is my class picture from primary school. I was either 12 or 13 here, I can’t remember. You can tell I was totally cool and ghetto because I’m wearing a wooly pink jumper that says ‘New York’ and my arm is looped through my friends arm in a show of non-conformist unity. I also had yet to be introduced to a hair straightener. Or a hair brush. #swag

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This next picture is from a phase I like to call “black eyeliner? That is sooo passé. Gold all the way cause I’m a baller.” I also had trouble taking a good picture….

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….glad that phase has passed:

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Caption?

Moving swiftly on…
This photo was taken on one of my first nights in a pub. You can tell I’m cool cause I’m holding some alco-pop and revelling in my adultivity. The style I was going for was “maternity-wear/bad tan/ghetto hoop earrings” and I think I totally nailed it. Just look at the fake tan between my fingers. Like, ew.

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The next picture is very blurry, but I’m sixteen years old and basically….Jack and I were the ’03 Bonnie and Clyde. Pfft, Jay Z and Beyonce. Look at us, how much attitude can one photo have? (This is also the first in a long line of photos that show me sans eyebrows since I got a little pluck-happy with my tweezers. What do eyebrows even do anyway?) I also bleached the crap out of my hair so I had to cut it because I looked like a scarecrow.

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Seriously, NO EYEBROWS.

After a few years of looking like this:

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Sweet Dreams.

…I decided that something, nay, ANYTHING, needed to be done…so I drew on some super black eyebrows which really complimented my bleached-to-f**k hair:

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Note: Jack is going to kill me for this but like I tell him, spider hair is cool, right? RIGHT?
Here I am recently, totally throwing shade at teenage Jane:

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Then I cut my own fringe and made this face:

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I legit went out with underwear on my head and a whistle and for the life of me, I can’t recall why…other than suspected acid trip.*

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Then there was the time Jack sat on me and I was the definition of crestfallen:

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And that’s pretty much all I could find. I mean, there are lots of embarrassing ones of my right now but you guys don’t want to see those….amiright?! *laughs awkwardly*

So now I’m going to tag three people to continue this trend of awkward photo sharing. Ladies, you do not have to take part but hey, we’re all friends here! You may have even done something like this before. So without further ado, I nominate:

Ritu from But I Smile Anyway since this was your idea and you’re totally up for it!

Amanda from insidethelifeofmoi because rainbow eyeshadow. Nuff said.

Julie from Random Musings From a Type-A Workaholic because you’re bags of fun!

Also, I donated €4 to Dogs Trust because…well, dogs!

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*Just kidding kids. Just say no…there’s no hope with dope…and so forth.

Being an Anonymous Blogger

I am a semi-anonymous blogger. I say “semi” because while I use a pseudonym, I also have a picture of myself as my avatar. It wouldn’t take very long for someone from my “real” life to figure out from reading the content of my blog that the author is me. Besides the fact that I’m everyone’s “weird friend” and this blog reads like the inner thoughts of a stripper/rodeo clown, I have also shared facts about where I live, my family and my job (which, coincidentally, is not stripped-rodeo clown). I haven’t tried very hard to keep my identity a secret. Maybe if I just talk really low, like this guy:

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I chose to be semi-anonymous because I didn’t want any friends or family members knowing that I have a blog. I wanted to be able to speak my mind freely and I know that a lot of my friends would judge me for that. My siblings don’t even have Facebook accounts, such is their need for privacy. They would think I was crazy for writing a blog. I know that a lot of people in my life would perceive my blog as immature and inappropriate, considering my profession. It just seemed easier to keep it from them, and I haven’t ever been tempted to tell anyone, apart from a select few that I can trust (Hey Ciara. My head still hurts from our crazy night.) I prefer to keep my blog a secret from everyone because then I can say what I like. Boobs. See?

I sometimes feel a little bit guilty, though. I read your blogs, where you share aspects of your life with such honesty and I feel like it’s almost not a fair trade. You guys don’t even know my name. I remember one blogger being so shocked when I told him that my name was not in fact Jane. I think he felt a little betrayed by the fact that he had been speaking to someone he had come to trust and then all of a sudden, he realises that he doesn’t even know my name. But hey, what’s in a name, right? A rose by any other name and all that jazz. Although there is this quote from the Simpsons…

Lisa: A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
Bart: Not if you called ‘em stench blossoms.
Homer: Or crapweeds.
Marge: I’d sure hate to get a dozen crapweeds for Valentine’s Day. I’d rather have candy.
Homer: Not if they were called scumdrops.

Disclaimer: My name is not Crapweed. Not even nearly.

I want to reassure you all that you do know me. The real me. In fact, you guys probably know me better than a lot of my friends do. And if you don’t, here are some basic facts:
I’m twenty seven, I’m a teacher, I’m Irish, I love owls and sea otters, I have a lot of pets, I like dancing (even though this) and bad karaoke, I’m very friendly, I hate the supermarket and bad drivers, I get emotional way too easily, I love astronomy, I’m obsessed with classic Simpsons, I have a great boyfriend and I like all things weird. There. Now we’re practically best friends.

I’d like to hear from you guys about this. Are you anonymous? Why or why not? What do you think the pros and cons of being anonymous are?

P.S. I just realised that I could literally be anyone to you all… Now I have to go fight crime while wearing an unnecessary cape and my underwear outside my pants. Oops, did I just write that? Looks like the jig is up.

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Helllloooo

GUYS. I am SO sorry it has been so long. I have a second job now tutoring a student as well as my school hours so I’ve pretty much just been teaching and sleeping, sometimes at the same time because I’m just that good. And then there’s my other job as a high-end prostitute on Hollywood Boulevard. Er, wait, that’s Pretty Woman. My bad.

I would love to hear from you all. I will come and visit your blogs, I promise, but in the meantime why not tell me how you are, what you’re up to and what your favourite flavour of jam is.

Hugs and jazz hands,

Jane
Xoxo